tergiversation
by sesha
Summary: a promise. a secret. a future foretold in increments.
1. retrospective

t: tergiversation 

a: sesha c. & eve marsh : {mindofsesha@aol.com & shackled_rapture@yahoo.com }

s: a promise. a secret. a future foretold in increments. {credit dauphine super challenge}

r: this section: pg-13/mild r… next sections : varied

c: premeditated angst

sp: through rendezvous

d: neither of us claim ownership. 

di: ask first, please

tergiversation* chapter one {a retrospective}

He hates the heady scent of fresh-cut flowers. Their sickly sweet fragrance, bound tightly into aesthetically pleasing arrangements, seem artificial to him. That he can smell them from a floor above the room is upsetting, but he wouldn't miss this show for anything. The flowers are but a small hindrance that annoy his senses and can be overlooked. They are expected at spectacles such as this, of course, no funeral would be complete without the obligatory stands of greenery flanking the casket, the exit way to the hearse, the cemetery. Tiny bowls of yellow and white roses in bubbly bowls, tied with gossamer white ribbons. He had hoped he could catch her perfume one more time, the smell he always associated with her, but with the floral odor and his distance from the casket there's no chance of that now. It's just as well.

He watches with veiled interest as the other mourners shuffle into the viewing room. Clothed solely in black; his form draped in obscure shadow, he knows no one can see him from this vantage point. Strange that no one expects to see him here, certainly not perched in some wretchedly hot upper level, voyeuristic in attendance, as he watches the sordid play unfold beneath him. Sloane leads the pack; his short, compact body clad in a well-fitting suit and shiny Italian leather shoes, his face downcast and brooding. Smirking, he wonders soundlessly if the man's patriarchal instincts have kicked in, or if perhaps he just wants the attention. Emily is a step behind on his right, her skin holding even more of pallor than he remembers. Together they approach the casket, pause. He wonders, fleetingly, if they had been able to do a good job with the restoration.  If she looks serene, unsmiling, her face made perfect again with waxes and glues and strange silly putties. Zeroes in again on what is going on below him, the slow motion movements that Emily make, knuckles white against the edge of the mahogany casket. She is suddenly shaking, a low tremor that starts slow and gains momentum, one warbling free hand wiping at sporadic, free- flowing tears. Sloane lowers his mouth to her ear, and from here he can't hear the grieving woman's husbands whisper. Can't see anything but the quiver that overtakes her body, the waving of a crisp handkerchief flowing from Arvin Sloane's pockets to his wife's fingers. Hers are the first tears he has seen; probably because she one of the two women in attendance. The men, he assume, come from the well-bred knowledge that it is a sign of weakness to publically exhibit your grief. They keep it buried in taut smiles and the slow scuffle in their footsteps, eyes devoid of loathsome tears, blank with private pain.  ****

They all look shell shocked more than anything else – he watches Dixon approach now, looking very close to losing the stoic expression he is wearing, his wife – Denise, Diane? He's forgotten, as though that detail even mattered –grasping her husband's hand, the couples' face a portrait of disbelief and despair. ****

It certainly had been a surprise. After all, she'd been the invincible agent, the one who survived life or death missions with skill and a sort of fashionable flair, with nary a scratch to cast doubt on her bank cover.  She'd been able to fool so many people for years with this ability of evading consequences for her actions, consequences like death, honing her skill to lie so easily that she made every untrue utterance seem verifiable. Dirty truth. To recall all the times she emerged from dangerous perils unharmed, even when all the odds were stacked against her, it is hard to believe that she could be gone. That same disbelief echoes in the room beneath him, the inconsolable shock, and the still – present whispers of: car accident? How could it be...?

Of course, he understands the state of mind she had been in at the time of her accident. The autopsy report, all clean lines and black ink, spelled it out. "Toxicology reveals that the deceased had self-medicated with approximately 100 mg of Xanax, 550 mg Codeine, 30mg Valium. Alcohol present in blood at 1.25 %, above legal limit and in reaction to pharmaceuticals present in the bloodstream, resulting in probable black out and subsequent loss of control over vehicle." 

Dead on Arrival at Mercy Hospital. Organs, those salvageable, were donated to a kid in Jersey who needed a heart and a woman in Arizona who had been waiting on a kidney for two years. He isn't supposed to have that information, either, but it has become effortless for him to be granted access to the most private of files. He wanted to know where the living pieces of her ended up, while wanting to forget her lifeless face, body, hands: black and blue with bruising, paper clipped to the front a manila folder with her name on it. Proof from a million different angles. No matter which way he looks at it, the facts remain the same: death has taken her, and in truth, in truth—that is best. Her silence will prove invaluable, he reasons, and his attention again is recaptured, eyes again on the people below.

He honestly thought that Jack Bristow might not show, but he surprises him, and appears out of nowhere below. His entrance casts an immediate, uncomfortable silence around the room. He is the last of the mourners to arrive, the only relative in attendance. The number of mourners itself is poor, Francie's absence strangely conspicuous, but there is nothing that can be done about that now. He looks lost, the senior man scanning the honey-colored pews and searching, searching – for something. He wonders if Jack thought, momentarily, to seek him out. Perhaps- but then again, he doubts it, for his own absence is most assuredly necessary.****

Sydney's father wears an anguished expression obvious from across the room as he slowly makes the procession to his daughter's casket. From here, her face looks like peach plastic framed behind white satin, and he has to remind himself that this vestige of her is only a shell. A cold hard shell with nothing left inside it to haunt him or make him light-headed with stupid desire. And while he could argue with himself that this is indeed beneficial, that he will now be able to focus on the things he is meant to focus on without the haunting of his emotion for her, he still feels regret. Regret for his lies and his honesty, regret that he felt so much and said so little. There had been a place for them, he had thought, a place far off from the particulars of their existence. He thought they had a lifetime, and the convincing grief written on Jack Bristow's face relays to his heart and his mind that he has been incorrect about everything.

When the senior Bristow backs away and moves to a pew in front of the casket, music fills the room beneath his feet. The strands of "Amazing Grace" rise to his ears, the sickly sweet orchestration, lyric-less, just the soft and melancholy tones. He listens when the director begins to speak, his voice low and reverent.

"Friends, family, I welcome you. While this day holds so much sadness and undue pain from the passing of one of God's daughters, we meet to give celebration to the life of this amazing woman. A woman who suffered, yes lord, suffered unduly in the short span that she was with us; O lord, we call up to you and give reverence to the life that our dearly departed lived, so valiantly and courageously. As Jesus said – be ye not sad…"

Two suited funeral officials walk over and close the casket. The man below at the microphone has too little to say, summing his diatribe with some pious comment about how much she will be truly missed, after which strangers - men he has never seen before - come and pick up the sides of the casket. He wonders if circumstances had been different, would he have been given the honor of carrying her casket to the hearse, being part of its journey to her most final and private of spaces. The thought, while saddening in a deep way, still sends a perverse shiver down his spine. He closes his eyes and hears the wailing below, the sound of Emily Sloane and her noisy, dutiful tears. He envies those tears, wishes he had the luxury to cry for his friend, to take a moment and think about all it is that she meant to him. But he doesn't want to allow that, not anymore. Finished with this silent observation, he steps backwards slowly, dropping the memory card he's been gripping for over an hour.

"Sydney Allison Bristow. April 19, 1973 – May 19, 2002: And lovingly, she is surrendered back to Christ" flutters in a crumbled heap to the worn hardwood floor below. 

*

A shroud of darkness surrounds her, enveloping; an inky black that goes on to infinity. Claustrophobia has never been a big problem of hers, but for some reason, trapped in this gilded cage of wood and eternal sleep, she feels slightly perturbed with the confinement. Closing her eyes, trading one darkness for another, she hopes that she is making the right decision. 

Her watch makes a small, silent tremor, indicating she has two minutes until extraction. The hearse slides to a slow stop and she hears the muffled sound of the driver's door open and close. Holding her breath, she waits until the doors in the rear open and prepares herself for the jarring of the coffin being pulled from the vehicle with swift, jerky motions. 

Right now, everything is about speed. When the lid of the monstrous mahogany coffin is lifted, the light hurts her eyes and she instinctively raises up her hand to shield them.

"Agent Bristow"? The agent above her is a short, squat girl with green blue eyes, dressed in the appropriate funerary workers outfit. "You need to change into this, and quickly. Your car will meet you at the prearranged spot in 2 minutes."

"Great. Thanks" She takes the clothes and instantly is pulling the navy-blue uniform over her tank top. Taking a moment to look around herself and identify her surroundings, she sees the vases of fresh flowers accenting the doorway to the crematorium. It disturbs her, these visual cues of what has just taken place. What did the others think when they saw those flowers, in that context. Overwhelmed, she focuses inward on the task at hand.

"Hurry, agent Bristow" a voice reminds, and she pulls the rest of the clothing from her body. Claps her hat on her head and pulls on sunglasses. "Good luck" follows her out the door, and despite the general horror of the past 48 hours, she almost smiles.

Her watch buzzes against her wrist. One minute. Adrenaline pumps through her body in lacerating tides. Nervous electricity running rampant, mixed with a heightened-sense of self-awareness, makes her antsy with unkempt energy. Lifting the communicating device inside her watch  to her mouth she whispers forcefully, "This is Freelancer, I'm nearing rendezvous. ETA is thirty seconds."

Breaking into a short run, muscles thriving with spontaneous force she quickly darts across the back of the cemetery, breaking up her sprints with brisk walking. She spots the clearing past the bushes ahead of her, leading directly towards her extraction point. After a quick look around her, she finds nothing but silence and endless rows of graves decorated with flowers in a bizarre array of vases. Her feet pound the ground beneath her as she sprints across the late morning lawn, thousands of people at rest beneath her feet serving as her only witness. Satisfied that no one living could be following her, she makes the final break through the foliage in the rear of the cemetery grounds and sees the battered charcoal gray Blazer parked inconspicuously on the corner.

Slightly breathless from exertion and fear, she opens the door tentatively and sees the face of her handler. "Get in" he orders, and she complies, wordlessly, startled by his presence. She wasn't sure what she had been expecting when she entered the car, but it certainly hadn't been Vaughn, dressed in black with wild eyes, unruly hair, a study in impatience. 

As soon as the door shuts, he peels into the glossy asphalt. "What are you doing here?" she hisses.

"Remember how I said that most of the extraction procedure was highly classified?" He dares a look in her direction. "This was one of the classified parts I told you about. I sent a double out 2 minutes before the hearse even arrived at the crematorium. She resembles you from a distance, just in case we had surveillance by any third party they'd follow the bait." His eyes make brief contact with hers. "Just in case. I'm playing everything extra-safe."****

She remembers him saying something once about being wildly, crazy careful and she finally understands that now, comprehends it in a way she hadn't ever planned. At one point in her life this mission of hers - this lifelong goal of taking down SD-6 - had been all she ever wanted, a highly specified tactical game of cat-and-mouse and revenge. Just as easily as she entered this life and took Vaughn's words with less than a grain of salt, she now realizes the impact of not following such rational advice. Sydney gives him a satisfied smile, relief that everything is still running smoothly, if only for the moment. 

"Good work, agent Vaughn. So the next stop is still Albuquerque, right? Or rather, the helicopter that will take us to Albuquerque?" Drumming her fingers along the edge of the door, she waits his response. The car interior shows signs of wear and tear; underneath her fingertips she can feel scratches and dents. A disposable car, one you leave by the side of the road without regret. A getaway car. And at the moment, it doesn't bother her in the least. ****

"No. We used that as a diversion in case the CIA mole was made aware of our true plans. This way we shouldn't have any leaks in regards to faking your death and sending you to a safe house while your father attempts to locate the man responsible for Will Tippin and Francie Calfo's deaths…"

Their names evoke a familiar sadness that washes through her. Will and Francie - her best friends, killed only days before, their memory filling her vision with images that could only hope to be faded, not forgotten. A rush of guilt remains; no matter how often she convinces herself their deaths were out of her control, she still feels responsible.

She knows where this conversation will go if she lets it run too far. She blames herself, a continuous cycle of self-hatred and poignant regret that makes her weak with a bone-chilling despair. A type of cold that is impossible to shake off, a weight that cannot be lifted. In the end, her friends died for one reason and one reason only: they had both known her. Clearing her throat, she blatantly changes the direction of their discussion to the particulars of her extraction. **  "In short, you and my dad are the only people that know where we are going?"**

"No." He makes an arching turn to the right and glances in his rearview mirror. "I'm the only person who knows where we are going. Your dad asked to not be made aware of that information."

"But what if I need to get in touch with him? Or him with us? Vaughn-" A warbling note enters her voice, and she's scared suddenly, afraid of what a lack of contact could mean.

"There's a secure web address that is CIA encrypted where you father may make messages known to us and we can do the same. The entire process is firewalled; they don't know who we are, where we are sending from, and vice versa. Totally secure."

"And he's the only one who knows about that?"

He gives her a brief glance, forehead wrinkling in testimony to his worry before gripping the steering wheel and pressing down on the gas. "Yeah."

"So," she attempts to sound light and airy. "Where are we going?"

"I guess you'll have to find out when we get there."

*

He watches her while she sleeps, slumped against the window, her breath making webs of mist as they ride down a forgotten highway. Blinking away encroaching weariness and keeping his eyes trained on the white splotches on black asphalt, the tick of miles driven and miles to go create a warring tally in his head.

He has no idea where he is going.  Just driving until some place feels safe, and he wants it to be a million miles from LA. Every gallon of gas wasted into the nigh makes him feel like he hasn't gone far enough. And with each hour that passes, the air between him and his passenger becomes more and more tense and silent. For a hundred miles she'd ceased to speak – didn't want to. He could see her reflection, face pale and eyes drawn, the impact of the past 36 hours becoming all too garishly real. He understands the reasons well-enough to be more than sympathetic to her silence.

He remembers Tuesday. Recalls with vivid clarity the frantic call from Weiss, yelling that the safe house had been compromised. Walking in to find a veritable bloodbath, dirtied with 4 more bodies of CIA men who sacrificed their lives for the endless cause, the holding room where Will had been kept and abducted a messy wash of blood. The thick red liquid was everywhere, creating a sickening trail where imagination and instinct led him to believe that the reporter had been dragged across the carpeting and down the hardwood floor. By the time he was done surveying the scene the M.E. already estimated that there was enough blood on the floor to suggest that the victim was most certainly deceased. Part of him hopes they never find the body, that Sydney can have a chance to move on and not be confronted with what would surely be an unwanted reminder of all she has lost in this process. ****

What happened next: stepping into the bathroom, the only place safe from the maroon and scarlet tinged living room, he can't completely justify. With trembling fingers he had called Sydney, breaking protocol by dialing her numbers, by asking her to meet him, by calling her by name - "Syd….there's been an accident."

No one who says "there's been an accident" means an "accident"; not really, it just makes you somehow feel better, more in control. An accident implies that there was no premeditated intent to cause another person or thing harm. Accidents just happen, random and reversible. An accident was not what happened here; it was purely planned and perfectly executed, and five men had given their lives for…

She didn't cry. Not at first. Showed up in twenty minutes, face free of cosmetics, and she didn't cry. Took in everything with wide eyes, her breath shaky when she sighed. It was heartbreaking, seeing her like that, in shock or something like shock, the horror trapped in her eyes. They sat in the bathroom, later, her hands gripping a styrofoam cup of old coffee. Her cell phone had sounded so loud in that room, making everything around them jar with a horrible clanging noise. 

He couldn't really make out what was being said, but the slow motion replay of her face has been etched on his mind forever. Eyes widening, she could only nod, over and over and over. He heard something about a break in and then something about a shooting, and then she had pressed "end" and looked up with this—expression, eyes filling with tears and her fingers clutching the coffee cup almost violently.

"Francie's dead." When she cries: big tears welling and spilling over her cheeks, leaving an angry red trail down her face, her eyes glowing and iridescent brown-gold. He doesn't know what to say, not anymore, and so he takes her coffee cup, sets it on the sink, and then he breaks protocol mere feet away from his boss and scoops her into his arms, pulling her rigid weight into his. He holds her until she is really sobbing, great hiccups and shaking and grabbing his shoulders. ****

Six people dead. The count was rising and he was scared looking at her. Didn't want to leave her side, and wouldn't listen if he were told to. When she said she wanted to go to her apartment, after the police investigation and well after three in the morning, he had whispered to her that he was coming with her.  Her apartment had been ransacked, and only two things were found missing: a hat box full of ancient photographs from a distant life and a collection of her mother's antique coded books. It was a horrible experience to watch her sift through her belongings after the fact, strewn around and half-destroyed, cataloging the contents for insurance policies and police reports. She had moved around the melee without a sound, robotically restoring a semblance of order, in what seemed a complete autopilot trance. It was standing there in her home, helpless in a corner while she resembled a ghost with dead eyes trying to give the destruction meaning, that he knew something had to change. It wasn't safe for her anymore, and in a rush of determination he vowed to be the one to keep her secure, succeeding where he had failed in the past.

He blinks and lets everything shimmer for a moment, looks at her, because he likes to make sure she is still breathing. Right now everything seems fragile, unbelievable, and even harder to process when he's soaring down highway 81 on a blustery May night. It's true that he does think she is too beautiful, and this situation too risky for him and the both of them. He knows this, just as he knows all the odds are stacked against the two of them making it anywhere together virtually undetected.

But he drives. Rolls down the window on his side when he starts to feel sleepy and the sounds of wind rushing past makes her stretch and open her eyes halfway. The distance is still there between them, the way she refuses to look too long, the way she folds her hands into her lap and looks straight forward at nothing.

"About how far are we?" Already curling in the opposite direction, he waits until her eyes are closed again and she is once again drowsing.

"I guess I'll find out when we get there."

*

Sydney has long since stopped trying to keep track of the time. Or their location, for that matter; Vaughn's silence about their final destination has grown irritating to the point that she doesn't even care where they wind up in the long run. The scenery has equally failed to capture her attention, endless highways, roads with no end. Just time to think, and she doesn't know how much more of even that she can stand.  

The Blazer is short on accommodations, other than the AC Vaughn has set on 'high'. Its one redeeming feature is the respectable legroom – with minimal cramping she is able to twist her legs to the side and underneath her, allowing the semblance of a sideways reclining position. She can feel the door lock press incessantly against her cheek after what seems like hours frozen in that position, but has little desire to alleviate the discomfort. She almost welcomes the pain, letting it serve as her penance.

She is running away. She has never run away from anything in her life, and the more time spent in this car, the more emphatic the loathing of her actions becomes. It all happened so suddenly: a new enemy, Will's discovery of her agent status, his subsequent death, Francie's own shooting, the hurried plans for her 'absolute extraction', as the CIA so bluntly phrased it. The worst week of her life; and only now, stuck in this beat-up car with a stony, silent brooding Vaughn, has the adrenaline worn off and the enormity of what has just happened been slapped in her face. There's no going back.

A jerky rattling shakes her from her thoughts as Vaughn guides the car off a solid dirt road and onto what must be gravel. Sydney looks up, her neck stiff from holding such an extreme position for hours, re-centering herself in the seat before fully taking in her surroundings. The path itself is framed by fairly dense woodlands, with foliage covering nearly every surface. Vaughn maneuvers the vehicle effortlessly down the winding road, she assumes towards the clearing she sees ahead.

She turns to look at him at last, his eyes bullets on the terrain ahead, focused on their destination. "Where are we?"

He doesn't move a muscle to acknowledge her query, no glance in her direction or motion with his free arm. It is almost as if he is riveted in this position, held together with focus and determination alone. She startles herself, realizing that in her melancholy she never once thought to suggest a turn at the wheel so he could rest, unable to recall the last break they took. After a moment he replies, "A guy I met in college owns this place, he said it was in their family for ages, they never used it. I figured it's about as remote a place as we're going to find."

She can see the clearing breaking now, a small flat area with a modest, two story structure framed behind the backdrop of the woods. It looked deserted, well built, however unkempt, but…"you're using a place one of your buddies owns as a safe house? Vaughn, how do you know they're not going to run background searches on you, or something, aren't you afraid they're going to find me here-"

He shook his head once, sharply, dismissively. "I met the guy once at a frat party. He was drunk off his ass, probably never realized he talked about this house in the first place and certainly doesn't remember me. No one will find you."

"And you remembered about this house so many years later?"

He turned in her direction at last, and she was taken aback by the depths of his eyes. She couldn't read them at all. "I remember everything."

*****

**{tbc}**


	2. myraid illusions

t: tergiversation: chapter 2

a: sesha c. & eve marsh {mindofsesha@aol.com & shackled_rapture@yahoo.com}

s: a promise. a secret. a future foretold in increments { cd super challenge}

r: this section: pg-13 for content and language. forthcoming sections varied

c: premeditated angst and carefully articulated confusion. 

o: information available in chapter one.

tergiversation * chapter two {myriad illusions}

Dawn shoves rosy fingers between fluffy blue-gray clouds, the horizon a bleed of color on color as viewed from the adjacent picture window.** Obtrusive sunshine forces Sydney to wake suddenly and rise to a sitting position, realizing that she is in an unfamiliar bed, a situation that proves alarming until she comes to the knowledge of where, exactly, it is that she happens to be. With her whereabouts identified, she rolls her head back and wills her heartbeat back to normal.**

She takes in steadying gulps of air and forces her on-guard body to relax back into the cushions of the bed. After long moments spent acclimating, she lets her eyes roam around the spacious room, taking stock of her surroundings. A faded, ragtag quilt lies in haphazard folds around her legs, and pillows rumbled with a shape most-resembling her head sags against the oak headboard. A castoff armchair, with one of the back supports snapped in two, occupies the far corner, and there is a solitary area rug to the left of the bed, threads swollen with time and ragged around the edges. A shaft of sunlight falls onto the center of it, bleaching the colors further, revealing its protectory layer of dust. Morning light fractions through an open window, casting the room in a much more welcoming atmosphere; a far cry from the ominous darkness cloaking the room the night before. It feels almost like a weekend house in the country, almost like her childhood home from decades past; she is surprised how a few hours could erase the fear she had experienced when they had first pulled into the rugged drive. ****

She peers out the window to be confronted with a solid wall of high trees mere yards from the house, and the natural camouflage sends a flash of reality back to her system. This is no weekend house in the country, no quick visit to revel in the simple pleasures of outdoor living and relaxation. The quilt tangling her legs no longer is a quaint reminder of old-fashioned charm but tangible evidence that she will never again sleep in her own bed. No more lounging curled against sheets that smelled like downy and pressed by Francie - she can vividly remember - Francie, her arms tangled in sheets, one hand with an iron and the other with starch. These memories, poignant and haunting, jar her to admit what it is that she most wants to not recollect: she has been erased; everyone that had known her now believes she is dead, and this room, despite its country comfort and old charm, can not remove the facts from stacking up in a neat line in her head. 

Feeling confined, her stomach grumbling with hunger, she resolves to get out of this unfamiliar bed and focus on the day ahead of her. Her bare feet touch the old plank oak flooring, worn from countless years of use. This place feels old, it feels grounded, and despite the dust and the solitary nature of its location, she feels secure in its quaint familiarity. She tiptoes across the room to the closet, where she'd stuffed some of her bags the night before in a zombie-like exhaustion. Ruffling through her suitcase she pulls out jeans and a tank top, shampoo, conditioner, a few other toiletry items that she balances in a precarious pile on her forearms. Leaving the room, she begins a search for a working, clean bathroom to hopefully shower in. 

Unsure of her direction, she lets the door behind her creak to a soft close before venturing down the stretching hallway. Tentatively stepping forward, each movement forcing her further into an enveloping darkness, she tries doorknobs, opening room after unique room. It becomes a series of discoveries, uncovering forgotten bedrooms, closets, and quarters packed with nothing but relics from families past. The room opposite hers once belonged to a child, she presumes, complete with a hobbyhorse and splintered bunk beds. Faded gingham curtains hang on the windows, building blocks rest against a corner. She pauses and takes in every niche of this hallway, memorizing it instantly, taken by the simple charm of the décor. It becomes clear that each of these rooms tell a story of the decade in which they were assembled, none appearing recent, all with an individualized theme. This voyeuristic exploration makes her feel like an imposter, out of place and time, intruding on the simplicity of a cabin in the woods that belongs to people that she has never- and will never- meet. 

After careful searching the door at the end of the hall reveals a bathroom, all blue and white tiling lining across the floor in some haphazard geometric pattern. A squat window lets in a modicum of light, flashing against the porcelain faucets and commode. The bathtub is a claw-footed monstrosity, some sort of throw-back to the 30's that is quaint in its design. A cut out cabinet above the toilet is stuffed with washcloths and terry-cloth towels, and she pulls one down and takes a deep breath. Despite the obvious odor of disuse, it shakes free of debris and appears clean. 

She stacks her shampoo on the floor beside the tub and draws water into the basin, watching as old rust flows through the antiquated pipes until running clean over her fingers. The temperature goes from icy to tepid to scalding in a matter of moments, and with a satisfied smile she plugs the tub with a cork stopper and lets it fill as she undresses. 

Her own face in the mirror looks back at her as she inspects the reflection for the evidence of the past few days' stress. The woman staring back at her lacks vivacity; instead, worn circles rim her eyes, cosmetics long removed by endurance and driving and sleeping against unfamiliar pillows. One side of her face seems puffy, blanched and white is the opposite, and she frowns, pulling down her lips into an unseemly expression of exposed distaste. She brushes her teeth, jerky movements across her gums and rinses, all in time to see the steam rising from the full bath.

Lowering herself into the hot water, she breathes a sigh of unwarranted relief. It takes her a few minutes to realize she is trembling, slightly, her shaking limbs causing minute ripples in the bath water. It feels surreal to allow herself such a simple pleasure of soaking in a tub so soon after the past few days' events. This guilt consumes her, makes her shaky with emotion that simmers so close to the surface. She feels empty, swimming in a murky sea of spent tears and suffering that she cannot evade. How she single handedly has been the harbinger of death to so many evades her - but all the same the tides of pain sweep over her, crashing over her and pulling her back, relentless. 

Forcing her attention on other things, she realizes there are items she has forgotten to pack, and now will never see again. Easing deeper into the water, neck resting against the cold porcelain, she remembers trinkets, necklaces and bracelets and barrettes, inconsequential pieces of her past, a past now sacrificed for an old, worn down house in the woods. How long would they remain here, she wondered, in this quiet little place that belonged to neither of them? How long could they possibly dare to stay?

A muffled crash startles her from drifting off. Wary yet curious, she relinquishes the familiar comfort of the cooling tub to stand and dry off with an over-starched towel found earlier in the corner. Dressing hastily, she pads down the hallway to reach the steps leading downstairs, and comes to a halt when she makes out Vaughn's voice, just barely, talking in the air with a horrible stage whisper.

"…don't think that's a good idea right now."

She doesn't dare risk the stairs; old houses are notorious for creaky floorboards. She had no idea they would have phone service out here – he must be on a cell. One of those special-issue deals. She sees him pace into the main room at the foot of the stairs, agitated, turning and leaving her field of vision.

Louder now, "…you hear a word I've said?" A pause. "Just do what I told…", his voice dropping to a murmur she couldn't make out.

What the hell was she doing, crouching besides a wall, eavesdropping? This was ridiculous. So he was on the phone, big deal, she was sure he would have made sure it wasn't traceable. By all accounts so far, he had taken secrecy and covering their tracks with a thoroughness she didn't think was possible. He was being considerate, keeping his voice low to not disturb her if she was still sleeping. Paranoid much, Syd, she mocks herself, shaking her head and descending down the stairs.

Sure enough, the fifth landing lets out a sharp groan the moment her foot adds pressure to the surface. This house reminds her of her parents' home when she had been a child, complete with complaining floorboards and creaking stairs. She felt like a little girl again, caught by the elderly constructs of the house when she would try creeping downstairs first on Christmas morning. The action produces a startled response in her, heartbeat suddenly singing fast beats in her ear, holding her breath, pausing for just a second before letting her next foot down on the step directly beneath. With resolve she inches forward, steadying her heartbeat, breathing normally, she reaches the ground floor and turns in the direction of the kitchen, an overwhelming sensation of hunger ripping through her abdomen. The distinct aroma of coffee hangs in the air, and rounding the corner reveals Vaughn jerkily shoving the phone into his back pocket, the large size and irregular rectangle making a strange protrusion. Sat COM phone, confirming that yes, indeed the call had been untraceable. It floods her with relief and piques her curiosity all the more, but for the moment, the desire for food seems overwhelming. 

"You're up early." If he even slept at all; he looked disheveled, hair askew, his button-down shirt a mess of wrinkles.

"Just a couple loose ends to tie up. You're settling in ok? The room, it was alright?" He makes little eye contact, looking around the room sporadically. Her eyes follow his, light on the miscellany lining the floor of cardboard boxes and half-full bags. She recalls them as having been stuffed in the back of the Blazer, but had no idea of the contents until now. 

"Yeah, yeah, it was fine, thanks. The hot water is great." He's keeping his distance, arms crossed over the other in a less than casual stance. He has always been very good about keeping the appropriate degree of personal space between them during meetings; she thought that with them like this, in the middle of nowhere, with no one around to enforce the rules, he would loosen up a little more. Or maybe that had been some sort of abstract, stilted hope, because now she feels funny having expected such a thing.  She's so accustomed to close quarters, shoulder to shoulder with Francie in the kitchen, crammed on a couch with friends. And now all she has is him, and he's still staying a million miles away. She tries not to take it personally. "That's what you were on the phone about?" ****

"What? It was nothing. So," his voice turning, modulating to a conspiratory tone, "what do we feel like for breakfast?"

*

He twirls a piece of fabric in his fingers, a thin line of unraveling gossamer ribbon, nearly opaque and warm beneath the pads of his thumb and forefinger. Concentrating on the picturesque scene in front of him, eyes focusing and blurring again. It's past time for the phone call, but he is not interested in rushing the itinerary. After all, he has a plan, and that involves not disrupting the expected with his inability to be patient. 

It's on his list of things to do: learning how to be patient. He thinks he is making progress.

Five minutes. He'll give him five minutes to call, and if he doesn't, then he'll go ahead and dial the numbers anyway, knowing the man can be a procrastinator and can get caught up in doing the most inane things. All the same, the waiting is killing him, these little seconds blossoming into minutes and all he can do is stare out the fucking window. Despite that, he must admit - it's a lovely morning, all golden sunlight reflections and birds singing and all that bullshit that shouldn't really matter but does. It's a good start to something, and he needs a good start, because right now everything seems hell-bent on falling apart. 

This, he understands, is not part of the plan. Falling apart. He isn't the sort to fall apart and besides, he's come too far to piss away all his careful articulations about everything. And there are still a million things to do, which instead of being stressful just makes everything feel more important. He knows what is going on in the outside world, but he demands a status report anyway, and as soon as that phone rings he-

Incomplete thought, because the phone does ring. 4 and one half minutes late give or take about 8 seconds. He lets it ring twice before answering.

"Hello?" Vague tone. Ambiguous.

"I'm sorry I'm late."

"You ought to be. I really don't like to be kept waiting and I thought we had an understanding about the way things were supposed to be done."

Pause on the opposite end. He spins the cloth around, threads becoming more ragged at the ends. 

"I said I was sorry, and I meant it." He hates that pleading whiny tone that he has, really, he does. His own voice never sounds so…unconfident and placating to him. Well, at least not now, not at the moment, because that part of him is buried. Tired of being stepped on and walked over, and it really fucking amazes him that the man at the opposite end of the line could actually want to sound like such an egoless fool.

All the better. "Enough groveling. Let's get to business, then, shall we?"

*

Weiss slams the phone in its cradle, knowing the effort is futile; the conversation had already ended, cut off abruptly by the party on the other end. It still feels good, though, the reverberations as plastic hits hard plastic. If he weren't in the office he'd do a bit more damage than that, but he knows better than to raise suspicions, cast the slightest doubt. He has learned his lessons well.

It's just so…frustrating, not getting the treatment he deserves, not getting the recognition or respect that the other men he deals with receive in spades. Being used as nothing more than a carrier of information, serving other people's interests. He doesn't even care about the work, not really, he could give two shits about Jack Bristow and his hell-bent course for selfish vengeance at the end of the day. Maybe that's why he's so good at this, and really, he is good at this. And soon enough they'll all find out.

His eyes scan the room and fall on the dulled gold coin perched on the corner of his former partner's desk. No one thinks it strange that he lurks in here, takes calls and works on Michael's computer. They expect it, he guesses, after four solid years of working with someone else it is hard to let things go. It's not like he doesn't see their faces when they peer in the blinds to see Eric Weiss hunched in Vaughn's leather-backed chair, yo-yo tangled in his hands, three fingers wrapped around the phone. He's not blind to their pitying stares- like he deserves their pity by hanging in this office and making it his grand central. Fuck them. Maybe he is the last person at the CIA who still gives a damn about where Michael Vaughn had crawled off to. 

He'd been such a fool, risking his entire career for one little infatuation. She was cute enough, but not worth risking a government pension over. And now what did he have to show for it? Vaughn's last day and last words were Omega-16 classified, and he and Jack Bristow had apparently simultaneously gone AWOL for all intents and purposes with the agency. No one knew where either went, and about three-fourths of the LA office could care less. 

Fingers close around the ice-cold coin. He flips it in between his index and thumb and it falls, rolling across the floor and hitting the baseboard, vibrating to a stop on the tile beneath his feet. Damn. He eases out of the chair and bends to pick it up, catching a gauzy glance of his face in the window above him. He smiles at himself, watching the reflection turn up his lips in a semblance of a grin.

Satisfied with himself, he turns from the window and relays the coin on the corner of Vaughn's neat-as-a-pin desk. He knows his boss is proud with his work. He can tell – the conversation had been curt as usual, to the untrained ear it probably sounded just like his earlier phone call. But there was a note of satisfaction in his boss's voice, something Weiss was able to pick up after so many interactions. He is gaining power, becoming more valuable. It won't be long now until his boss realizes just how instrumental he is in this whole operation.

It won't be long at all. 

Feeling refreshed from working things out in his head, Weiss turns, and moves to the door. Perhaps he'll hit the deli across the street for lunch today.

* 

She didn't know how Vaughn had been able to stuff so many boxes in the blazer – he must have made a trip here before they arrived last night to drop off supplies. From her spot unpacking in the living room, she can see the late afternoon sun filter in through curtained windows, casting light and shadow on the sea of cardboard before her. Exhaustion hits her all at once; unexpected, but with the level of intensity they has approached everything with since they has arrived, not that surprising. 

They've spent the morning unpacking, dusting off, cleaning up. In the full light of day the house has become merely idiosyncratic, and without shadows hanging from every corner it is bearable, even quaint. Using an old array of cleaning solutions, they have managed to remove most of the grime covering every unused surface, working together in less than companionable silence. 

Every moment that she's even thought to look up had been covered in a quick, closed mouth retreat into polishing or dusting in bit-lip quiet. The problem is that she wants to ask questions – a desire that is met with a terse audience in Vaughn. Any statement that she makes pertaining to any sort of particular seemed to un-nerve him, and she is treading on eggshells around him as she attempts to quell her own unending curiosity.

This morning, over breakfast- her nibbling toast and coffee with cream and sugar, explaining that a safe house retreat seemed bad for one's health and diet as he devoured eggs and toast and coffee with a swiftness that she secretly admired. The lines in his face had made the most beautiful array of angles as he smiled at her- this genuine, dazzling smile that takes away from the fact that he looks absolutely exhausted.

She brought up the fact that she had no idea what state they were in, and this seemed to almost make him happy. Smiles like a chestire cat and says "it's best that you don't know all about that, Sydney," and it made her nerves stand on end. It still does. 

If anything, she has an issue with truth. Not trust- she trusts Vaughn, implicitly. Knows he is incapable of cultivating an emotion of doubt within her; she trusts him. But truth- that is another thing entirely. She wants to know the truth, the facts, doesn't want to have things colored with any sort of secret or silence. Wants to know where the hell she is right now. 

"You aren't going to tell me?"  It was a quiet little statement, hard to make and preciously fragile. Looked into her coffee and bites at her toast, avoiding his direct gaze, which has become suddenly intense.

"No, not right now." 

There is something in the way that he said it: final, authoritative, convinced –that made her turn her head for a moment and stare at nothing but the wall, a haze of red-hot anger washing over her, making her seethe with an inner heat she has not felt between them in a long time. The way that they used to disagree on particulars, quick intense jockeying for power in the warehouse and the bloodmobile seems infantile in comparison to the hostility brewing between them at that moment. Add to it the fact that in the past she had usually won most arguments with him, and was not, presently, winning.  

So she has stopped asking about the phone calls and the state they are in and they decided that the house ought to be clean, and which rooms should be done when, a diatribe that has now wasted several hours in productive bliss. Hours making the house presentable, and now, attacking the boxes he brought along. Or, rather, Vaughn playing authoritative and telling her which boxes are supposed to go where. She has played along, not knowing the topography of the house or the contents of the boxes, but feeling wary over his constant vein of secrecy throughout the whole day.

And now, Vaughn stands in a corner, arms crossed over the top of the other, focused on the proper placement of every box. She is still wary of the commanding tone his voice has taken on, reminiscent of the scene earlier in the kitchen. It's a reoccurrence of the same bristling of nerves, the instantaneous creep of annoyance lurking beneath the surface and in direct response to his constant vein of secrecy throughout the whole day.

Fingers closing around a nearby box, she bends to pick it up. "Syd, wait, I'll do that box later. Here," he steps over, pulling out another box, opening it, verifying its contents as dry kitchen goods, "can you take care of this one?"

"Why, what's in the other box?" Meeting his eyes, she asks half-joking, half-waiting for a straight answer. 

Of course, she gets neither. He looks away and merely takes the box, throws it in a closet with all the other unopened boxes that he'll 'take care of later', and goes about sorting through the rest without a moment's explanation. 

"Vaughn, stop." He looks up, then, and if she weren't so exasperated he might even look cute. She attempts to interject her tone with humor, "Do you want to level with me here?"

He stands, not advancing towards her, just reaching his full height. Why does she see that as combative? "I don't know what you're talking about."

"What's with all the boxes?"

He docks his head, just a little, and proceeds as if he's placating a small child. "Sydney, you're going to be here a while. You do realize that; that it's impossible for you to go anywhere in public for a very long time? These are only supplies; it's not like you'll be able to just jog off to the store for anything. Besides," he gestures to the far window, revealing the ever- present thick woods behind him "it's not like there's anywhere to go."

His statement takes her aback, both with his cold rendition of her situation as well as his tone. There's being cruelly honest, and then there's being sensitive to a situation she had been brought into largely against her wishes. There is no reason for him to be so mocking, and after hours of working inside the stuffy confines of the house, she wants nothing more than to get out of this room, get some distance from his tension. And there is no way she could do that, not now. It's like she's still trapped in the coffin in the cemetery, locked up with no way out.

"I would just appreciate it if when I asked you a question that you would answer it instead of intentionally dissuading me for being an active participant in my own life." She's not sure that she intended for her own voice to sound as brittle, bristling with surging disdain. Not afraid to look at him, she meets his eyes from across the room and awaits his response. Returning to his earlier pose, he re-crosses his arms and looks at her levelly.

"I don't know what you are talking about, Sydney. It's not your business to know every action that I make and the meaning behind it."

"I expect you to be honest with me, Vaughn."

"When have I not been honest with you, Sydney?" Is his terse reply, voice taking an edge she is suddenly willing to urge on.

"When have you told me the truth?"

Eyebrows arching skyward he drops his arms. "I'm trying to protect you. It's not in your best interest to know your present location."

"Do you not trust me, Vaughn? I'm not going to run. I'm not going to give away my location. I'm not some novice in all this, and I'm still not sure that I need your protection in the first place."

He visibly bristles at her response, face twitching into an angry scowl. "I am your handler, Sydney. Sometimes I have to remind myself of that fact when you are challenging me and my authority over you…"

"Authority over me!" Stuttering, she greedily drinks in air before continuing, incensed to a level of anger she has not felt directed at anyone in a very long time.

"Yes. The authority that the CIA gives me: the power I have over you. You are my responsibility. It's my job to decide what is best for you. So if that means that I am not going to tell you what is in these boxes, or who I am on the phone with- then you should trust my good judgment and know…"

"This is ridiculous" her vision fills with the refection with unshed, frustration-filled tears. "I can't believe you are treating me like this…"

"Like how, Sydney?" He's genuinely confused, but the hostility lingers beneath his words.

"Like I'm…like the two of us, our…" she looks into his eyes, lets him see the glitter wavering in her eyes, takes a deep breath, and then exhales. "You're right."

He seems taken aback by her sudden retreat. Backing away from him, turning to face a picture frame on the wall, noting the dust that still clings in tiny webs on the surface of the glass. They must have missed it in their cleaning expedition, and she looks at the photograph buried beneath the glass plate and grime.

"I think you are reading too much into my actions, Sydney. The only thing that I want is for you to be safe."

A perfect family. Standing in this living room, mother, father, son, daughter. Interlocking hands as they face the camera, expressions grim. She can see her own face, pale, unsmiling, wearing a similar countenance of discontent.

His words hang in the air, unchallenged. He is right, on some level: where can she go? And after the fury of the past week, she is tired of confrontations, the tenseness that seems to surround her. She runs her fingers past the photograph, wiping away the shell of dust and leaving fingerprint smears on the glass, and turns back to the cartons that still need attention. After moments of silence Vaughn too turns to his pile of boxes, and they resume the relentless unpacking, of grunted directives from her handler and her mute compliance. It's a tenuous truce she forces herself to acquiesce just as she forces a smile on her face when the last box is stuffed into the closet and Vaughn yawns from across the room.

"I think I'm going to head up to the shower" He says almost amicably, and she nods curtly, sinking into the cool cushions of the leather sofa. 

"Sure."

"Maybe when I come down we can discuss dinner?" He's trying, she knows, can hear the strain in his voice from his effort. Wanting to find some sort of middle ground and break the forced platitudes she smiles up at him, wiping a strand of hair from her cheek.

"Sounds good, Vaughn."

His face skews into a brief smile before he turns. She sinks deeper into the cushions and watches him leave, watches as he pauses at the banister and looks back at her.

"I'm sorry Sydney, for everything. I know this isn't ideal for you…"

"You don't have to apologize, Vaughn. Everything is going to be okay." 

Something crosses his face but from the muted light and distance she can't read the expression. She turns from him, facing the wall in front of her, the long since used fireplace filling her vision, and hears as his feet find the creaking floorboard.

*

{**tbc}**


End file.
